Last Thursday morning, I decided to go for a jog. I’d done enough COVID-19 doomsday scrolling for the day. There are only so many times you can see the disease projection numbers before it really starts to get to you.
It had been a while since I had last run. Over the summer, I had stuck with it three times a week for three miserable months, until one week it rained for three days straight. I promised myself I’d make up the missed runs when the weather improved, but three days away from running reminded me how much I loved not running, and I happily broke that promise.
For the first time in days, I stripped out of my way-too-long pajama pants (with the exception for showers); donned socks, shoes, and a jacket; and headed out the front door. The near-freezing Chicago spring air burned my nostrils. It felt good. I remembered how much fun it was to be outside and free. I remembered that, before the apocalypse, I had loved feeling the wind whip past my face as I biked to school. Nothing woke you up faster. How long would it be before I could feel that again?
Minutes later, with my fingertips numb and my breath coming in ragged gasps, I remembered something else: I hate running. After an effortful half-jogging, half-walking mile, I found myself at a nature preserve centered around a bubbling, drainage-water stream. One could call it “quaint.” I paused to catch my breath for the 20th time and saw a picturesque suburban scene: mothers and fathers taking their children for walks, leashless dogs enjoying a few minutes of sniffing euphoria, and bundled-up joggers effortlessly surpassing my top pace. Their gaits looked so light and joyful, taunting me with what I could be if I spent less time in front of the computer.
Yet, in the details, the apocalypse was evident: school-age children not at school, parents working from home, joggers leaving muddy footprints six feet from the sidewalk, everyone with downcast faces and wary eyes. I passed people from a distance and compulsively yelled out cheerful “Hello”s so I could show I did not hate them. Despite their equally enthusiastic responses, I felt fake for seeming happy. Seen by the people of the apocalypse, I felt ashamed for being happy.
By then, I had jogged a whole 0.2 more miles and felt I deserved a reward for my athletic feats. I sat down beside the stream to enjoy the sounds of nature around me. As the dry-to-the-touch stream banks slowly soaked through my pants, I closed my eyes and opened my ears.
The flowing water. The symphony of birds. The rustle of leaves as the wind whispers through. Beneath it all, the drone of cars. In awe, I listened to the symphony of the world around me – happy to live in the moment. I felt at peace.
It’s funny how when you focus on listening, a “moment” feels a lot longer than it is and “peace” is actually pretty boring. By minute three, your mind has repeatedly tried and failed to find any semblance of rhythm, and the stream has yet to learn the concept of musical phrasing. You begin to think, “How much longer must I enjoy nature before I can count it as a ‘thing I did’ today?” I figured ten minutes was good enough.
I closed my eyes again and let my mind wander. Surrounded by the freedom of the outdoors, I could not help but feel caged by the inability to choose anything else to do. If this were a week ago, I’d probably have been studying with friends over a delicious cup of coffee. Basking in the sun, I could not help but think of the invisible terror spreading through the world and the false optimism that had brought us here.
I got up, jogged home, and washed my hands.
Fengling Hu is an MS1 at the Perelman School of Medicine. Feng can be reached by email at [email protected].
